


A Very Nic Christmas

by bubble_bones



Series: Wine, Paint or Blood (John Wick) [2]
Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas Fluff, Crack, F/M, Fluff, an au in an au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29205741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubble_bones/pseuds/bubble_bones
Summary: John Wick is in love with Helen Moore. And, if she is to be believed, she loves him back - enough to bring him along to her family's annual gathering for Christmas. Yet amongst the intimidation of meeting her parents, there is now the added factor of Helen's uncle - a one Nicolas Vizla, a ghost from John's past.He thought it was already going to be difficult pretending to be a normal, respectable man. And now, at the dinner table, sits a man that could just as easily pull a knife on him as he could expose his lie.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick
Series: Wine, Paint or Blood (John Wick) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144289
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. introductions new and old

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS FOR YOU MY LOVELIES! We're on the Cyberpunks discord, and we convinced the mod to let us have a John Wick channel. It has gone downhill from there: enter Uncle Nic, a character we collectively created in an afternoon and spiraled from there. This introduction for Uncle Nic was originally going to be the "canon" for my fic, [Wine, Paint or Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29132751/chapters/71519031) (wherein Helen is a painter that meets John as a hitman before the events of the movies), but I've decided to give Uncle Nic a bigger role than comic relief. And so, this is almost like an alternate universe of that fic, for a bit of fun. 
> 
> The face claim, by the way, for Uncle Nic is Mads Mikklesen. King. (more specifically like how he appears in Polar (THANK YOU YEET! AND POST FOR SUGGESTING MADS!) [here](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/805971910667272192/806599077461885008/Tumblr_l_482951317359783.gif)). His surname Vizla is also a reference to his character in that movie!
> 
> Thank you to my lovely friends: Inky, Post, YEET and Kato for collectively losing their minds with me and fleshing Uncle Nic out into the character he is! If you have no goddamn clue who he is and are just reading this for John and Helen, I welcome you too! I hope you enjoy a bit of fluff <3

The drive had been easy for Helen - she didn't like long journeys, John knew that, but she'd taken some travel sickness medication before they'd started so she'd been fine. She'd read a few chapters of the new novel he'd ordered as a gift last week, chatted with him for a while, and had a nap. It was only a three hour car ride, John had definitely suffered through worse. 

But this was a far different experience for John. Ever since he had picked her up from her apartment earlier this afternoon, he'd hated every second in that car. His wing mirrors had become his best friends; constantly checking behind him, that car had been following them for a while. _Oh, they've turned off._ Having Helen by his side on the road for so long was one thing, but sneaking out of New York without a trace was a nightmare. He risked her life on a daily basis just by being selfish, and letting himself love her - but he could _not_ bring his danger with him to her family home. It was hard enough trying to consider how he should behave around her parents for the first time, without the added stress losing any tails. 

Bizarre, really, that his priorities were structured so that he was more afraid of upsetting Helen's mother than blowing the brains out of a stalker. 

"Hels?" he asked, breaking the comfortable silence. She hadn't wanted to listen to music, and he was perfectly fine with simply listening to the purr of the engine as they drove along the frosty highway. 

She hummed, rolling her head against the leather headrest to gaze at him. He stole a glance off the road to look at her, felt his chest warm up at the little smile she gave him. 

"Test me again." 

Helen let out a bubbly little laugh, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, John, you're one of the only people I've ever met with flawless memory and you're making me test you?" 

"Yes." 

She was barely keeping her smile under control. "Alright," she said, slipping her bookmark between her pages and closing it over in her lap, "What's my sister's name?"

His lips twitched. "Easy. Evelyn, Evie for short. I won't call her that until she says I can." 

"Her name's the easy part, it's telling us apart that's going to ruin you." 

"I know you, Hels. I'll be able to tell." 

She didn't seem convinced. "Uh huh." she hummed, "Alright, my dad." 

"Peter. He likes cars, so I can talk to him about that."

"My mom?" 

"Lisa. She is an excellent cook and I will not say otherwise even if I think I might throw up." 

Helen barked a laugh. "Good, she'll like you." 

His hands tightened on the wheel. God, he hoped so. However could he marry her in good conscience otherwise? He didn't deserve to have a conscience with all he has done, nor did he deserve to marry Helen. He hadn't even asked yet but he was going to marry her. However, he'd much rather prefer to have her parents' blessing. 

"John, baby," he felt her hand upon his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze, "Really, they're gonna love you. I do, so they _have_ to." 

He sighed. "Keep going." 

She pulled her hand away and laughed softly. "Okay, aunts and uncles." 

"Uncle Nicolas, everyone calls him Nic - your second dad." 

"Mhm." 

"His father was Russian and he is fluent, so I can impress him with that." 

"Baby, you make me swoon with that Russian. Uncle Nic's gonna adore you." 

John smiled. "I hope you don't expect me to make your uncle swoon." 

"Oh, God no. That's exclusive for me." Helen laughed. Oh, how he loved that sound. "Uncle Nic's family?" 

"Karen, his wife. They're notorious for ending every gathering by arguing so loud they, and I quote, 'wake the nearby populace of animals out of hibernation.'" that recitation, word for word, of her retelling of past Christmases, rewarded him another laugh. "And they have two kids; Misha, he's seven; Anastasia, she's six and already has a princess complex." 

"Gonna need to watch myself," Helen murmured, "Ana's already stolen Uncle Nic from me, if I'm not careful she'll have you wrapped around her little finger too." 

John chuckled, and took a hand off the wheel to reach for hers. Her cheeks went a lovely soft pink when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. 

"You couldn't lose me if you tried, Hels." he promised, and despite the grin on her lips, he knew she didn't know the full extent of that promise. He didn't think he'd ever be able to let her go. 

"Okay, and on my mom's side?" 

"Aunt Barbara and Aunt Rachael."

"Bitchy and single, watch out for those two." 

John smiled, and took a little pause to check the mirrors again. There was a truck on their left that had been with them for a while, and a little red car behind. Neither looked particularly suspicious but he would keep an eye on them just in case. 

"I won't test you on the cousins," Helen decided, and he felt a weight ease off his shoulders. He wasn't sure if he remembered those. "Just ease up, John, okay? No one is gonna pull a gun on you."

"That isn't what I'm afraid of." he admitted, "I'm more concerned about offending anyone." 

She rolled her eyes. " _Please_ ," she drawled, and squeezed his hand. "You're the most proper gentleman I've ever met. You won't offend anyone, baby."

All he could do was nod and let out a little sigh. Helen switched on the radio, humming along to some cheery Christmas tunes, and John returned his focus to the road. It was easier to merely think about the journey than the destination; what would it be like to drive up the road to Helen's family home? To help her out of his Mercedes - she'd insisted on taking the least of his flashy cars - to walk up the porch steps and be introduced as her boyfriend. It felt odd enough to consider it; him, John Wick, as _anyone's_ partner. Her parents knew she was seeing someone, but this would be the first time he'd met them. And that made him feel sicker than he'd ever been before taking out a target. 

So once he had gotten beyond the initial introductions and the nerves that came with it, he had to worry about _Christmas_. It was a holiday he had never celebrated. He'd never celebrated any before he met Helen - on his days off the last month, she'd had him watching cheesy pieces of cinema to lighten his spirit, and admittedly he'd learned something from them. He'd studied the traditions and the rituals, asked Helen for stories of her own Christmases; tried to store their personal family habits in the back of his mind. The gifts Helen had picked out for them had a higher budget this year, as he insisted on contributing. He had never tried to restrict his money, especially when it came to her, but he had tried not to appear as if he was flaunting wealth. Helen came from humble backgrounds, and unlike him, hadn't had the opportunity to rise well above it monetarily. So he'd had to be careful as to not appear like a snob in front of her family. 

He'd even dressed down for the occasion. Helen had wrestled him out of his favourite three-piece, insisting he, "Looked like he was attending a funeral," and went digging through his wardrobe for something remotely casual. In the end, she'd huffed and ranted about his fashion sense - tossed a dress shirt, pair of trousers and a sweater at him. And when he'd tried to reach for a tie out of instinct she'd slapped his hand so fast he felt like a child reaching for a bowl of candy. She'd rustled her hand through his hair, undone the top buttons of his shirt, stood back and studied her work. Then, he looked, "Sufficiently like a normal person." 

And Helen looked beautiful as ever, even if she'd insisted she was wearing nothing special. Jeans and a simple blouse, but it made him smile to see her refusing to take off her cardigan - that soft, grey woolen one he'd bought for her. She was constantly pulling the sleeves down over her fingers, the sides across her chest, snuggling into its collar. She was comfortable and warm, more than he could say if she was making his journey on a bus on her own. He was glad he could give her such small comforts - being able to drive her to her family home in the depths of winter, and make sure she got there safely... It made him feel more fulfilled than any contract he'd ever finished. 

Finally, the signs for Boston began to appear along the highway. Not much later, he turned off to enter the city, all cloaked in snow and bright street lights at this time of afternoon-to-evening, where the sun would set faster in the day. The navigation on the dashboard to the address would've saved them decent time, but Helen didn't even question his choice to roam around the city for a while. Not to sightsee - not like he hadn't been to Boston before - but to ensure they absolutely didn't have a tail. For a little while, they simply sat in the warmth of the car parked up outside a store closing for the night. John nearly got out to deal with the driver of the car that parked with them, only for them to drive off a little while later. 

So, content at the very least that no one had followed them, John began the last leg of the journey towards Helen's parents' home. She straightened up in the chair as he started taking familiar turns, driving along streets she knew. It made him smile to see her eyes light up at the homes lined with Christmas decorations. 

The house belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Moore was larger than he would've assumed. On the very outskirts of the city, where houses were much further spread, he took the turn up the little lane to reach the rustic but homely house at the end. It slowly began to dawn on John that Helen's parents were comfortable, and their home was far more beautiful than he had envisioned; being poor was simply a stubborn self-supporting thing Helen had decided for herself. 

There were already a handful of cars parked in the drive. He didn't want Helen to walk very far through this snow, but he didn't have much of a choice, so he parked at the end of the chain. Two SUVs, one grey and one a muted blue. Another car, far sleeker, near his - a Porsche? And Helen had told him he couldn't bring one of his nicer cars. 

He helped her with her bag, insisting on carrying more than her; hauling the gifts for her family along with him. She fussed about him, trying to better re-pile the stack in his arms, but he just gave her a single raised brow and she gave up. Carrying a pile of presents was the least physically demanding thing he'd done all week. Helen dug in his coat pocket for the key, locked the car behind them, and led the way up the lane to reach the house. There were another two cars in the immediate driveway; an old, beaten-up little thing, and a pick-up truck. 

Before he could begin guessing, trying to assign cars to people, Helen was up the driveway, going towards the stairs to the porch. _Blyad_ , his gut was churning. He decided he'd rather fight three guys with bats right now with the added challenge of not dropping the pile than climb those stairs.

"Come on, baby," Helen said softly, holding her hand out to him. He wished he could take it, but his own were a bit occupied. Still, he climbed the steps to the porch and waited with her in the very brief moment between her pressing the bell, and the door flying open. 

"Hels!" came an excited cry from inside the door, but he couldn't see over the stack in his arms. Then, "Helen's here!" 

He wasn't sure if he'd ever heard a chorus of cheers to announce someone's arrival before. It brought a little smile to his face, to hear so many excited about seeing his lovely Helen. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one who appreciated her; it felt like finally, he'd meet other people that valued her as they should. Maybe that was really the only thing that they had in common that needed to matter. 

"Heya, Evie!" Helen said with delight, "Help John with our things, won't you? He's carrying too much-"

He opened his mouth. "Helen, really, I'm fine-" 

But someone had already reached for some of the gifts near the top. The pile halved, and his breath got caught in his throat - _two_ Helens were looking at him. No, not two. One was Helen, his Helen; wearing her coat and cosy cardigan he bought for her, at his side. The other was studying him intently - _judging_ \- with the same warm brown eyes, a twitch of a smile on her lips that was far too mischievous to fit Helen. Her hair was a bit shorter, a bit darker. 

Oh, he had severely underestimated the power of identical twins. 

"So you're John! I'm Evie, nice to meet you." she said, and that was relieving - at least their voices differed a little. Hers was a little deeper, Boston accent a bit stronger. With the weight of the pile lessened, he could shift it to one arm, shake her extended hand with his other. 

"A pleasure." 

"Ooh, his voice is so deep!" giggled Evie to her sister, "Swoon!" 

"Shut up." Helen laughed, "Let us in out the cold, will you?" 

They barely made it past the threshold when another of Helen's family assaulted them. Evelyn barged through the house, leaving them in the hands of someone John had _dreaded_ meeting - her father. 

"Dad! Oh, it's so good to see you." Helen was pulled into a tight hug by a man not much shorter than himself, though beside Helen, it wasn't that difficult to appear taller - she only looked tall in heels. He was greying, hair receding, but after releasing his daughter out of that hug, he turned to look at John with those same eyes both his daughters had; warm, welcoming. 

"John! Come in, come in." he said with a smile, beckoning him through into the hallway to shut the door behind him. "Here, just put your things down over here. Let me take your coat." 

"Thank you." he wasn't sure if he'd ever had a more polite tone in his whole life. Helen's father helped him set down the gifts and their bags down on the ground by the foot of the stairs. When John shucked out of his coat, her father kindly took both his and Helen's to hang them off the already very-full rack by the door. 

_Uh oh_. Helen's father was staring at him intently - judging him just like Evelyn had. He smoothed over the bottom of his sweater and returned Helen's smile when she looked up at him. Even as a man so unaccustomed to social circumstance, he could tell the atmosphere was tense. But then her father extended a hand to him, and he'd never been so relieved to shake someone's hand before. 

"That's a good grip you've got there, John." he laughed, patting his hand before letting him go. "Come on, make yourself at home. Fancy a drink?" 

John nodded. "I'd appreciate one, sir." 

"Good God, no need to be so formal. Call me Pete."

"Formal is all John does, Dad." Helen smiled at him, and all of a sudden he felt at ease again. "His favourite is bourbon, by the way." 

He was glad Helen had said it, because if asked, he probably would've just drank whatever he was given. 

Peter nodded, a grin on his face. "Y'okay, I'll check the liquor stocks. Nic's been at it already, you know what he's like." 

He headed off down the hall and John let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Well, that was two down - and Evelyn and Peter seemed to like him, or at the very least, didn't _dislike_ him. 

Helen slipped her fingers between his, and leaned into his side. "Relax, John," she said softly, with a little laugh, "Seriously, no one's gonna pull a knife on you." 

"I might actually prefer that." he admitted, and at the sight of her twitching lips, he smiled too. 

The house was cosy and comfortable, if a bit cluttered with furniture. Not all of it matched either, and he had never really realised before how much that could annoy him. His own apartment was all black and white, everything fit together; Helen had described it as cold though, so perhaps he should redecorate. The ceilings in here were low, so he had to duck through the doorframe she led him through. The lounge was as clustered as the hallway, with two sofas and a pair of armchairs down near the fireplace at the other end of the room that didn't match the couches. Almost every seat was claimed, bodies filling the couch, chattering over the television playing in the corner. At the end was an enormous Christmas tree covered from top to bottom in decorations; he could barely see any green. 

From a quick survey - as was his habit when he walked into a room - he counted the windows; one behind facing the drive, two on the west wall into the garden. A doorway behind him they'd come from, another on the same east wall leading back out into the hall further down. If a fight broke out in here, it would be disastrous - too much furniture to fall over but none of it high enough to prove effective cover. 

John shook the thought out of his head. He didn't need to be considering those things here, not now. 

"Helen!" came the bubbly sound of a child's voice, as two children rushed up to her legs. Her cousins, then - Misha and Anastasia. They chatted away at her in quick voices that didn't quite pronounce all the words correctly, stumbling over their sounds. She released his hand to better hug them up into her arms, and he hated the way eyes instinctively drew up to him. He knew he would be judged a decent amount, and had thought nothing of it. Because until then, he hadn't cared. 

But now, it felt like the opinions of those around him were more important than anything. 

She straightened up beside him, and her arm wormed its way back into his. He couldn't thank her enough for the smiles she was giving - they were doing wonders to keep him grounded. 

"You already know Evie," she said to him, poking her finger at her sister perched closest, along with another woman he didn't recognise, nor could put a name to, "Her girlfriend, Kate." 

"Hi!" Kate said with a friendly smile, waving from her spot on the couch. 

"Aunt Barbara and Aunt Rachael," she addressed next, and the two middle aged women beside the young couple just stared at him, shamelessly looking him up and down. Sizing him up. He tried not to let it bother him. "And then at the end, that's Aunt Karen, and in the chair that's Uncle Nic. Everyone, this is John." 

Karen, a woman with unnaturally platinum curls and wrinkles around her lips, gave him a smile - not enough to reach her eyes, though. Not a genuine sort of smile, the exact sort he was used to. In her heels and fanciful red dress, she didn't belong on the same couch with the other women in jeans and comfy sweaters. Across from her, her husband was lounged in an armchair, turned away from them. 

Once she was done with the round of introductions, John offered his best smile. 

"A pleasure to meet you all." he managed. And then, at the far end of the room, someone choked.

Karen let out a whine. "Nic! All over my dress! Disgusting." 

Sure enough, her calves and edge of her skirt were covered in a drink - a drink that had previously been in Nicolas' mouth. The armchair spinned, but not to assist his wife in cleaning off his drink. To look up at John. To stare him down, hard. 

_Oh shit_. 

John knew there was something familiar about the combination of the name Nicolas, with mention of Russian heritage. But he'd shrugged it off, assumed he was being paranoid. Nicolas wasn't really an unusual name. He'd met plenty of Nicolas's in his time, it was a pretty common name amongst the Russian mobs he dealt with often. One in particular stuck out in his mind. 

When he was young - barely out of the marines and plunged deep back into the Underworld again. The biggest contract he'd ever taken, the one that earned him his notoriety. His title as Baba Yaga. 

Killing the _last_ Baba Yaga. 

Except he hadn't. It had been clean, staged, and his predecessor had _died_ \- all a lie. A lie John covered up and carried with him to this day. The only contract he had ever failed and it had been willingly. He had inherited the title for a lie, a farce, to allow a man desperate for peace free. And now that man was sitting in the armchair in Helen's family home, spit on his chin, staring at John with wide eyes. 

Nicolas fucking Vizla - the first Baba Yaga. 

"You okay, Nic?" Helen asked with a little laugh. She sounded unsure, uncertain - worst of all, uncomfortable. As did John, really, and knowing _she_ did only made it worse. 

"Fine." he coughed, wiped at his mouth with the back of hand. John had seen him do that before, except he had wiped away blood from a split lip. For a short, tense minute, he simply stared at John with that piercing gaze. He'd aged a decent amount since he'd last seen him - ten, fifteen years ago? Hair was hanging over his eyes, a steely grey, face speckled with a week's worth of unshaved stubble. Fresh wrinkles. But despite it, he was still impeccably dressed; slacks and a fitting black turtleneck, and John could tell he'd refused to give up his rigorous training routine for the shape of his arms and chest beneath it. And those hands, a killer's hands; poised ready to grab something at the sight of him. A weapon? Was he armed? 

He wouldn't attack him. Not here. 

"Nic! Nicolas! Stop sitting there gawping like a fish!" snapped his wife, "Go and get me a cloth, something I can clean my legs up with. I don't want to reek of that nasty drink." 

Finally, Vizla stopped staring at him. It was only to turn to glare at his wife, however. 

"Go and get it yourself." he grumbled, slumped back into his chair, "Maybe a bit of walking will shed some pounds."

Karen growled, but seemingly knew better than to try demands again. She huffed and got to her feet, stomped out of the room. Beside John, Helen rubbed at the back of her neck and shot him an apologetic look - as if she was responsible for the behaviour of her aunt-in-law. John simply offered her a little smile in return, but he felt eyes on him again. Nicolas was staring at him. 

"Okay then," Helen cleared her throat, and pulled on his arm, "I'm gonna take John out to the kitchen to get a drink."

The second they were alone in the hallway again, she turned to him with a look of horror on her face. 

"I am _so_ sorry," she murmured, running a hand through her hair, "I didn't think they'd start already." 

He took a hold of her hand before she let it fall back to her side. "It's okay, it isn't your fault. Please don't apologise." 

"I-I don't know what's up with Nic. Usually he's so friendly-" 

"I do." 

Helen looked up at him, a little confused at first. Innocently. A frown that deepened, and then lightened with realisation - twisted into a look of concern, then horror. 

"What is it, John?" she asked lowly, but she was afraid of the answer. He didn't blame her; had Nicolas hidden it all? Most likely. Not many would admit their ties to the Underworld to someone on the outside. But Helen wasn't truly outside anymore. She never would be again. And she was starting to worry at his silence; "John…" 

"It's okay. It's a long story, I'll tell you later." he squeezed her hand in his, and brought her fingers up to his lips to kiss them gently, softly. Just how she deserved, and it inspired a small smile on her face - much better. 

"Will you be alright with him?" 

"The question really is if he will be alright with me." 

Helen let out a little, shaky breath, before nodding. She weaved their fingers together and turned to lead him down the hallway. He had such a short, brief moment of reprieve to think. Nicolas Vizla - he'd never wondered where the hell he'd gone, because it didn't matter. Once, Nic had been his mentor, on and off. On the rare occasion when he'd had the patience for a younger, brasher John; took him to get his first suit measured and tailored, telling him that, "Yes, it was possible to fuck the system _and_ look stylish while doing it." He had bumped into him at Continental years later, pleased to see him still keeping up with the standard of fashion Nic had set. They'd gone shooting together, Nic had taught him a thing or two. They'd worked a handful of jobs together, all across the globe. 

"A man like Vizla," Winston had once said, "Is an excellent point of inspiration, Jonathan. A gentleman and killer both. You would do well to take heed to his tutelage." 

And one night, Nic had come to him with a request. It was risky, terribly so - he'd already had a contract placed on his head. A high one, a favour from a friend; he'd called in a marker for that dozen million figure. And he wanted John to fulfill it. He trusted John to fake his death. Not Winston, not their trusted friend Marcus. _John._

The truth of the circumstance only truly hit him afterwards. When people started describing him as the man you sent to kill the boogeyman. He'd handed his crown off to John. 

Nicolas' legacy built John's career. 

Nicolas Vizla was Helen's Uncle Nic. 

Her beloved uncle. 

Her second father. 

John felt a little queasy. 

Strangely, the one thing that wouldn't leave his mind was a memory not of Nicolas, but of Helen. Of one of the many times he'd been running self-defence drills with her. She'd moved in such a peculiar yet familiar way to dodge his attack, took him completely by surprise. She'd pushed him to the ground with such a happy little look on her face. The ending had definitely been different from what he'd been used to, but only _now_ did he realise where he'd seen that move before. 

Fucking Nicolas Vizla. 

Yet he couldn't worry about it right now - not when Helen was leading him into the kitchen, a wide space with a low ceiling. Still holding his hand tight in hers even as her father came into sight. 

Alongside her mother. 

Lisa Moore was definitely where Helen and Evelyn got the majority of their looks; same high, pretty cheekbones, arched brows, delicate nose. Her eyes were piercing, though. Staring him down the second they stepped into her kitchen. 

Helen drew him up to the island counter where her mother stood on the other side. Peter offered him a grin over her shoulder, slid a glass across the counter to him. Bourbon, thank God. He wasn't sure he'd needed a drink more now, or that one time he was in agony after breaking three ribs and earning himself a violent concussion. 

"I'm John, Mrs. Moore. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." John offered his hand across to her, trying his most charming smile - Winston had helped him perfect it after Marcus had laughed at him. _You look like a shark about to gobble me up_. Helen liked his smile, anyhow. He could only hope her mother did too. 

"It's good to finally meet you too, John." she decided with a little huff; her voice was sort of raspy, not what he'd expected. She placed her hand in his, and he drew it up to his face to kiss the back of her hand. It took her aback, but the face she pulled at her husband when John let her go looked mildly impressed, at the least. He shot a look at Helen; she was struggling to keep her smile tame. Lisa cleared her throat, and managed a small grin. "Well, make yourself at home. We're expecting some more to arrive before we sit down for dinner - I hope you're hungry." 

"I look forward to it." 

"C'mon, John, we don't wanna be in here when she starts cooking. She's crazy." Helen whispered, and he chuckled. He gratefully accepted the drink, bowing his head at her father in thanks; let her pull him out of the room and back into the hallway. At the foot of the stairs, she collected their bags up into their arms - only for him to at the very least pull his over his shoulder. "Let's put our things out of the way, I'll give you a little tour." 

She started climbing the stairs and he took a hard swig of his drink. Was she... Going to take him to her bedroom? Her _childhood_ bedroom? Oh, he couldn't even begin to describe his curiosity. She was halfway up before he realised he was still standing around like a fool, and headed up after her. He enjoyed the view ahead of him but smartly, kept his mouth shut. 

Helen took a left at the top of the stairs, on a small landing that led in a few different directions to plain white doors. She beckoned to him with a finger - far too seductively for their current circumstance, damn her - and pushed on the door on the left. It opened up for her, and he followed her inside. His curiosity was on hold for one short minute while he checked the situation; a single window that overlooked the front of the house on the southern wall. Excellent, a great view of the driveway then. The only path leading back out onto the main streets was perfectly visible from here.

A bed laid in the centre, headboard against the north wall; smaller than his at home, but it was still a double which meant, thank God, he wouldn't have to sleep apart from her. On the far side of it was another door, "There's a bathroom between mine and Evie's rooms, just be cautious about locking both doors because she loves to barge in without knocking." Helen explained. He set his bag upon the bed beside hers, and found himself examining the walls; the desk against the far wall was the bottom frame of a wall, painted an off-white, plastered in drawings. Scraps of paper stuck up with thumbtacks or pieces of old tape. She groaned but grinned as he put his hands in his pockets and wandered over to examine them. These were _definitely_ childhood drawings - nothing like her sophisticated and fascinating art she produced nowadays. Doodles in crayon or pencil, of houses or her family. Animals; a horse made common appearances across the spread. 

"Young Helen was quite the artist." he said with a smile, and she hid her face in her hands. 

Helen let out a little laugh, muffled by her hands - God, he loved her laugh. "I hope you feel special." she said, drawing her hands away to fold them over her chest, "I've never shown any guy my portfolio from before college." 

"I feel honoured, Hels." 

She rolled her eyes. "Ever the fanciful, John." 

For a little while, Helen pottered about the room. He didn't ask questions or even watch her; she seemed to be checking for things, or even hiding things that might otherwise cause her to hate her younger self for embarrassment. He couldn't relate, but it amused him how much she cared. He would never laugh at her, would never make fun of her. He loved her too much. 

"I will warn you, John," she said whilst digging through her travel bag, setting her toiletries and makeup purse on the desk's surface. He looked up from where he'd perched on the edge of the bed, staring down one of Helen's past bedpartners - a Teddy bear with a missing eye. She smiled at him, closed the distance between them, and God it felt good to touch her. To settle his hands on her waist and draw her close to stand between his legs. She smiled, "I have lots of teenage cousins - and they will all one hundred percent crush on you when they get here." 

"That shouldn't worry you." he affirmed, smiling when she came down to press a kiss to his lips. 

"Not me. You're the one who needs to worry." she ran a hand over his hair, tucked a strand of it back behind his ear, "They'll be all over you. Sharpen your elbows." 

John chuckled. "Helen, I've dealt with fifteen guys with knives all at once before. I can handle a few teenagers." 

The look of warning on her face amused him. For now, at least. 

For now. 


	2. dinner

John had made a mistake. 

He loved Helen Moore. He was so utterly infatuated with her that, nowadays, he couldn't stand to spend more than a few minutes without thinking of her. John Wick was in love with her. He could say that with absolute certainty and surety, the most confident of confidence. 

And he loved her more for her warning. Alas, it had fallen on deaf ears, and his hubris had made him believe himself above her prediction. 

"What's your favourite colour, John?" asked one of Helen's cousins - was this one Stacey? Or was she Jenny? They'd said their names at the same time, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that she was sitting far too close to him on the couch for comfort; he was nearly sitting on his hands to stop him from hitting her in instinctive self-defence. No one crossed into his personal space usually but Helen - and now two teenage girls were. 

"I don't have one." he admitted honestly. Until he'd met Helen, he never considered such simple things like favourite  _ anything _ . Favourite tie, maybe. Favourite gun, sights. Most useful and smallest knives. 

"Oh, you have to have one!" the girl on his left complained, "Everyone has a favourite colour!" 

"Black, I suppose?" 

"Isn't a colour, sweetie." called Helen from across the living room; she was nursing a glass of wine between her hands, looking quite put out at being so far from him. Sitting beside her sister and her sister's girlfriend, huffing every time they touched each other. He understood the jealousy.

"It's a tone. I know." he couldn't help the smile that hit his lips at her. They'd had this conversation a dozen times. But Helen just groaned and put her head in her hand, and he quickly let the smile drop when he saw the pink cheeks of the girls around him. 

"Do you drive, John?" asked the other girl again. This one was Stacey, he was sure of it. Was he? 

He nodded. "Yes. I enjoy driving." 

"What's your car like?" 

"My favourite is my-" 

Helen shot him a look. He wet his lips and tried again. 

"I drive a Mercedes." 

"Ooh, so that was your car! It's so nice." 

"Thank you." 

"John!" Helen said all of a sudden, perked up, "Should we go see if we can help in the kitchen?" 

The fallen expressions on the faces of the girls around him made him hesitate. He didn't want to upset anyone, but he wanted nothing more than to take Helen's hand and go to just  _ breathe _ for a few minutes. He was terrified one of her cousins would smell his mouthwash and start asking questions about that too. 

So he nodded. Reached up, put his hand in hers and couldn't help but smile back at the sight of hers as he got up from the couch. He heard a little click of someone's tongue behind his back as Helen led him to the far end of the room and out into the hall. 

"Thank you." he whispered into her ear. She laughed. 

"They were annoying me so much," she grumbled, "You'd imagine Uncle Bill would be horrified at his daughters flirting with you, but  _ no _ , he decides to go have a pissing match about cars outside." 

"He is?" 

"Don't be getting ideas, John. Nic's out there showing off his Porsche." 

"Right." 

He wouldn't go out then. After returning downstairs from Helen's bedroom, he'd managed to successfully avoid Nicolas. Helen had, without even knowing the situation, decided to keep them apart, sitting herself and John at the furthest reaches of the living room on stools whilst managing to involve themselves in the relaxed conversation in the air. And whilst, to anyone else, it might've looked like John was merely watching the television, he was able to keep an eye on Nicolas from where he was sitting, Helen at his side. Every so often, the older man would shoot him a glance back - a cautious one, as if he was checking if he was still there. As if his eyes were deceiving him. 

John could scarcely believe his eyes either. The man was a ghost; he disappeared so completely and so swiftly out of the Underworld without a trace that he might as well have really been dead. 

Still, even if Helen had just used the kitchen as an excuse to get him free of her cousins, he didn't mind helping. Unsurprisingly, really, but his nine-to-five had skills that were transferable to cooking - precision, calculation, planning. More practically, how he could handle knives mostly. It was one of the few things he enjoyed; Helen seemed to like his cooking. And her mother loved cooking as well, so really it could only end well. 

"Need any help, Mom?" Helen asked as they stepped through into the kitchen, and her mother was a completely different woman than earlier; flying around the kitchen, seeing to this and that. A dozen pots bubbled on the stove, trays roasting in the oven. 

She looked up at her daughter, appalled. "What? No, no, of course not, honey. Go and relax." 

John took a glance at the counter. There was a spread of vegetables and meats that had yet to be tended to. 

"Can I help you prepare?" he offered, and Helen beamed at him. 

"John's great at cooking, Mom. Saved my disasters  _ so _ many times." 

She hesitated across the island counter. It was a perfect opportunity to learn more about her daughter's new boyfriend, and a test all in one. Whilst he knew for certain he would pass any test with his hands, it was his mouth that scared him into finishing off his glass of bourbon. He had  _ never  _ been a talkative person, but with Helen, it was easy. It was fun. He loved hearing her talk about anything and she listened to everything he had to say. Which, once upon a time was not much, but he had let her into his life and his heart and now it was so difficult not to simply talk with her for hours on end. 

Except, Helen knew his darkest secrets. She knew and she loved him despite them. Helen Moore was in love with a killer, a murderer, a gun for hire. A professional assassin. She knew that and loved him anyway. He had warned her of the things he did, told her of what those hands had done, how soaked with blood they were. Yet she begged for his touch and his love all the same. 

So his conundrum had come full circle. Whilst nowadays, he excelled at talking thanks to Helen, he had very little to talk about that wouldn't instantly reveal a dark truth to Mrs. Moore. And the fewer that knew that truth, the better. John didn't want to lie, but he had no choice. 

But, he was also not very good at it. 

"Alright then," she decided finally, "Give your hands a wash and you can dice up these vegetables for the stew." 

"Of course." 

Helen squeezed his hand and let him go to find a seat at the stools tucked under the island counter. John plucked off his sweater and she took it off him, laying it over her knees, giving him a smile as he undid the buttons at his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. The sink was across the kitchen, underneath a window facing the eastern end of the garden; John found himself surprised, in all honesty, how much land the Moores owned. When he saw how Helen lived, he had always assumed they were not much better. Living pay cheque to pay cheque, in a tiny, rundown apartment in Brooklyn; starving herself because otherwise, how would she afford the rent? Of course, he had never let that happen since - every day since they'd begun dating he'd ensured she'd eaten breakfast, lunch and dinner. "Loaned" her the money if she was behind on rent. Tried convincing her to move in with him, or let him find somewhere better for her to live that was safe, secure and warm. But she'd insisted it was too fast and he hadn't pushed it again. 

And yet despite all that, her parents seemed relatively well-off. A nice, sizeable, comfortable home, plenty of land. It was private and homely. So why did Helen insist on struggling? Surely her parents would've happily helped provide if they knew the true sorry state of her living conditions - he had never had the parents to care for him, but he knew Mr. and Mrs. Moore adored their daughters. Therefore Helen had  _ lied _ . She had told them she was fine, comfortable, didn't need their help. And for what? So she could prove she was independent? Was surviving like that some sort of achievement? He knew his Helen was stubborn, but it really was stubbornness to an impressively higher level now he knew the truth.

He washed his hands with soap that smelled fruity and fresh. He returned to the counter for Helen's mother to give him some directions, and she handed him a knife. A relatively sharp one, not the most fierce blade he had ever seen, nor the longest. But he'd killed a man with worse. 

"Just do as many as you want, John, you're a guest, not a slave." laughed Helen's mother, who slid the fresh vegetables his way. 

"I don't mind helping." he said, and began on the carrots first. "I'm glad I can be of use somewhere, Mrs. Moore." 

"Pete said you were all formal," she rolled her eyes, "Call me Lisa, John. I appreciate it, but if you're gonna be staying under my roof we're friends already. Got it?" 

He cracked a smile. "Got it." 

Lisa's brows rose, and she shot her daughter a little look across the counter. Lifted her hand to cover her mouth and mouthed things to her. 

"Mom, shut up." Helen flushed a pretty shade of pink, "He has really good hearing." 

She drew her hand away and grinned. "Even better." she turned to John with a mischievous look in her eye, "How's your sight, John?" 

"Decent. I unfortunately do need corrective lens." 

"That's a shame." she said with a little sigh, "Helly needs them too. Oh well, kids look cute in glasses." 

"Mom!" 

Poor Helen's face was bright red. She shot him an apologetic look before burying her face in her hands. John was perhaps glad it went over his head -  _ no, he would not think about it deeper _ . 

_ Helly  _ was cute, however. Helen or Hels, or his usual pet names - sweetheart, honey, love, pet - those were his go-to. However, he liked the pretty flush on her cheeks too much  _ not  _ to add Helly to that list. 

By the time he was finished with all the tasks Lisa could assign him, he was pleased to know from her smile that he'd earned his way into her good books. In fact, he still had the knife in hand, engaging in polite, " _ chit-chat _ ," as Winston would call it, when the kitchen filled with more bodies. 

Not the sort John usually worked with. Living ones. 

Peter, Helen's Uncle Bill he'd yet to be introduced to, and -  _ bylad _ \- Uncle Nicolas. The second their eyes met, John instinctively felt the grip on the knife tighten. At a lightning speed, Nicolas' eyes shot down to the knife, and back up. Instantly, John let it go with a clatter. 

It was a sign. A clear indicator John was no threat, and didn't mean one. 

He could only hope it was mutual. 

"You okay there, John?" asked Peter curiously, and quickly, he recovered - nodded. 

"Yeah, just… Slippery hands, is all." 

A dark, familiar little chuckle left Nicolas. " _ Unlike you, Johnny boy. _ " he mused. 

In Russian.

He'd wanted to introduce that part about him to Helen's family slowly. It seemed his hand had been forced. 

" _ You startle a man, you don't get a say in how he reacts. _ " he replied, coolly. He caught the way the jaws of Helen's parents dropped, the looks they shot at each other. 

" _ Oh, so I  _ **_startled_ ** _ you? _ " asked Nicolas with a bark of laughter - to anyone else, they might've been having a jovial chat. 

" _ Of course. You're meant to be a dead man _ ." 

Nicolas chuckled, waved a hand dismissively at him. The conversation was dropped, but John didn't let out his breath until Nicolas had found a drink and left the room. 

"You can speak Russian, John?" asked Lisa in surprise, albeit pleasant surprise. 

He cleared his throat, glanced at Helen for confirmation. She offered him a kind little smile, so he just went with it: "I  _ am _ Russian." 

"Wow, you'd never know!" she laughed, "You were raised in the States, then? You don't have a drop of an accent on you." 

"Born and raised in Belarus. I moved to the States when I was twelve." 

Again, she shot that look at Helen - that brows up, mouth pursed look of unspoken delight. It was… Good, then? His heritage was…  _ Interesting _ ? Helen had found it interesting, but when he'd begun digging into the more repressed - and for good reason - memories he'd had of his childhood and upbringing, she'd gotten so angry and upset he'd been forced to stop on multiple occasions. But she liked that part about him, she knew; not just the trauma he had managed to move on from and still be a strong and kind man - ironic considering the circumstances - but she also enjoyed his heritage. The language. 

Especially when he said the filthy things he felt bad saying in a language she could understand. 

But he wasn't sure how her family would react. To anyone else, he was American - American name, accent, living and working in the States most of his life, serving their military. So really, it would be a surprise to anyone that he was, in fact, Belarusian. Racism had never been a  _ problem  _ per se; if anything, if someone knew of his true upbringing, it only added to the image of Baba Yaga people painted in their minds. He had never been afraid of someone finding issue with the truth. Yet part of him had been worried her parents would disapprove. 

It was good to know, then, that it simply made him a more intriguing prospect for their daughter. 

"I just hope the girls in the living room didn't hear any of it," Helen let out a soft little laugh, "Otherwise they'll be asking you for translations all night, John." 

"I don't mind." he said. In fact, he'd rarely had anyone find entertainment out of such a skill - the only time anyone had ever asked him for translations was Helen. And that often happened against pillows and he absolutely could  _ not  _ even begin to say any of what he'd said in English. At least not without wanting to crawl into a hole of shame first. 

It was then that her Uncle Bill finally introduced himself, and shook his hand. Her mother's brother, though he looked nothing like the ladies on Lisa's side. Short and rotund, with a hearty chuckle but an airy sort of vibe around his behaviour; like he was never fully mentally in the room. 

"Thanks for your help, John," Lisa said kindly, whilst her husband poured him another drink, "But please sit down with Helen. You're a guest." 

"I truly don't mind helping." he pressed, eager to keep himself busy, and earn some points while he was at it. But she just shook her head. 

"Go and sit down. Don't make me get all grumpy with you." 

At the very least, he convinced her to allow him to wash the knives and cutting board he'd used. Then she just shot him a glare that was all too reminiscent of the way Helen looked at him if he returned home with his own blood on him. So he just smiled and took Helen's outstretched hand, drawing it up for a kiss as he rounded her side and sat upon the stool next to her. Her cheeks were a pretty shade of pink when he let her go, and there was a tiny smile dancing on her mother's lips. 

Then Helen sighed, "I left my glasses upstairs. I think I'm starting to get a headache." 

"I'll go get them." he offered immediately and she waved a hand at him. 

"John, just sit down for a minute." 

"It's okay, I need to go and get mine anyhow. I left them in my bag, you wouldn't be able to find them." 

"You're obsessively compulsive, and thus very predictable." Helen said dryly, "I know they’re inside that shiny black case that somehow doesn't have a single scratch, inside the zip-up pocket on the inside of the bag, probably squished between two pairs of socks. Am I wrong?" 

He paused. "If I say no, will you shout at me?" 

"I would call you a liar." 

But he was already on his feet. "Then I suppose I'm a liar." 

Lisa was dying for a chance to speak to her daughter alone, and who was he to let his lady go up and do chores for him? He walked back up through the hallway, climbed the stairs. Helen had already mostly unpacked, and he found her glasses predictably not in a case, simply left on the end of the desk. And then he unzipped his own bag to retrieve the case Helen had described perfectly. Oh, she knew him too well. He half-contemplated leaving his contacts in for the sake of practicality, but he gave himself a stern reminder that he was somewhere safe; so he popped them out and returned them to their container. He suffered through that brief moment of hazy vision before he set his glasses up on his nose. 

Helen  _ adored  _ him in glasses. The first time he'd worn them around her, she wouldn't stop staring at him nor would her blush fade. And he loved her in her own. She had beautiful eyes, and it was such a shame to hide them, but there was something so elegant and graceful about the way her glasses perched upon her nose. Her newest pair which he held in his hand had been paid for by him - she had complained so long about feeling dizzy, he had insisted on replacing the pair she'd snapped. 

Carefully, John glanced at the door. He dipped around Helen’s bed to slowly and gently ease it shut with his fingertips, glad the hinges were well-oiled so they couldn’t make a sound. Then, returning to his bag upon the bed, he pushed aside the clothes he’d neatly packed, finding the solid case at the bottom. Inside was the only handgun he’d brought, and he hadn’t told Helen. She’d be so furious if she knew, but he couldn’t trust that this would be the perfect, peaceful getaway for the holidays she wanted it to be. So he carefully checked it was unloaded, before setting it and the case of rounds beside it underneath the left hand side of Helen’s bed - he didn’t care if that was her preferred side, he’d sleep there. That way, he could see the window and door to the room both.

He returned downstairs and to the kitchen. The second he stepped back in, Helen and her mother hushed their voices, giggling like a pair of school girls. He offered her the glasses between his fingers, not missing how long she stared at his own upon his face before taking them. 

"Thanks." she said sweetly, unfolding their arms to place them on her nose whilst he returned to his seat beside her. 

Lisa cleared her throat pointedly, "Dinner will be soon, can you go set the table, Helly?" 

"Sure thing. And no, John," Helen said quickly, poking a finger into his arm, "You're not helping. Just sit down for a little while, okay?" 

He rolled his eyes, and that got a squeeze of his arm instead. 

"I mean it. Don't let him get up to help again, Mom, he's got a bad leg." 

"Hels, it's fine-" 

She shot him a warning glare. The limp he mostly managed to hide had been from an incident when he was far younger, though the winter  _ always  _ messed with his joints; she obviously hadn’t missed that. And she wasn't wrong - his last job before the holidays had him spraining his ankle  _ as well as _ the limp, and that had made things very interesting to try to get home afterwards. John had never been a man to not carry his own weight, but having Helen there to take care of him that night had been a godsend. 

As Helen collected a stack of plates and such from cabinets behind him, John took to sipping from his drink. He'd never quite been in an atmosphere so relaxed before - so out of danger it felt almost bizarre. Not even at Continental had he been able to relax so much; even there, the very definition of a safe haven, a sanctuary for people like him, it had been tense. Constantly watched, judged. Talked about in whispers. Even when he'd retire to his hotel room, it would take him hours to find sleep for the paranoia of someone being foolish enough to break Continental rules. 

But here it was different. Helen's family were warm and welcoming, their home comfortable and cosy. They treated him with respect and made him feel as if he had a place here, even knowing him only for such a short while. All because of Helen. 

"Tough week at work then, John?" asked Lisa, and he almost jumped. She had her back to him, seeing to pans on the stove, so she wouldn't have seen how startled her sudden speech was even if he'd let himself show it. 

"It wasn't so bad." he said vaguely, "I'm able to manage under stress, it wasn't too terrible."

One of the many things he and Helen had discussed before leaving New York was his career. Not his actual profession, God no. The story they were going to weave for her family - the explanation for his wealth. She'd had him rehearse the lie, and even if she didn't know the truth, she'd looked so utterly unconvinced they'd given up entirely trying to come up with too detailed a tale. He'd never had cause to lie about it before, and he didn't have enough time to train himself to so convincingly her family would believe every word. So they'd decided on only vague bits and pieces; he invested in stocks, worked Wall Street. Some years ago he'd invested in bitcoin, and it had paid off. He had begun studying up on it, to commit to the role, but Helen had rolled her eyes, told him he didn't have to commit so strongly for a little lie. 

And now, knowing there was a man under this roof that knew the truth, he realised how little it really all mattered. 

“And you?” he asked, smartly avoiding further questions. Turning the conversation onto her instead - Helen wasn’t in the room to save him if he made a mistake, if he stumbled over his words. She had dipped out into the room behind; the front right side of the home, the dining room he presumed. Already he had the layout mapped in his head. 

“Same old,” she waved her hand, transferring food to dishes, “I run a little bookstore in town, it’s quiet most of the time.”

John nodded. “Helen told me, I presume you’re where her love of literature comes from?” 

“Absolutely. You couldn’t catch Pete reading anything deeper than the sports section of the local paper.” she chuckled, “And are you much of a reader, John?”

“Admittedly I’m running out of new titles to read. I enjoy classics, when I get the time to sit down and read.” 

“Table’s all set, Mom.” came Helen’s gentle voice as she returned to the kitchen. She returned to him, eyeing up his almost-empty glass, “Want another?”

“No, I should stop,” he admitted, and allowed himself to enjoy her smile; returned one. He finished off his drink, “I’ll stick to water now.”

“Water? In this house?” barked Lisa, who laughed heartily at him, “No such thing, John. Everybody drinks and eats plenty at Christmas under my roof.”

“Including you?” John asked Helen, who groaned. “What? I feel like there’s a story here.”

Her mother grinned. “Well, there was that one time last year when-” 

Immediately, Helen paled. “No. Absolutely not. We are not telling John about that.”

“Well now I  _ have _ to know-”

“No. No you do not. Stop smiling at me like that.” 

She tossed his sweater at his head, and he caught it with a laugh. She knew better than to test his reflexes - it could've been a knife she threw and he would've stood a good chance at dodging it. If not being excessive, and trying to catch it between his fingers. 

Between the combined efforts of Helen and her mother, the dining table in the other room was laden with dishes. Servings of a piping hot stew and bread rolls were laid out across the table, some seats a little more makeshift than others. The table itself was only so long, with so many chairs; evidently there were more diners than there were places. Yet from somewhere, a temporary plastic table had been added to the end, expanding a table that would be able to sit ten to twelve. John couldn't help but imagine his own dining room; a room he  _ never  _ used, because what was the point of moving his food to another room when he could simply eat in the kitchen? If there at all. But as Helen stood at the head of the table and directed the flow of people into seats, assigning spots to her family members and guiding the kids to eat together in the kitchen - John suddenly changed his mind. His dining table was plenty big enough for Helen's family. He could buy a larger one if necessary; he could imagine her smiling like she was here, all warm and beautiful, at his home, hosting a party of her own. 

But realistically, it could never happen. Inviting that many people, people important to Helen, to his home? It was asking for disaster. It was risky enough when he gave in to the temptation to let her stay with him; he'd barely sleep for how often he was checking the shadows in the corners of his bedroom didn't move. One arm around Helen sleeping soundly beside him, the other constantly reaching for the nearest weapon. If he were to bring that many people into his so-called sanctuary, who knew what sorts of ideas his enemies could get? 

"Helen, why don't you and John come sit up near me and your father?" Lisa suggested, trampling all over Helen's careful seat planning. But she didn't argue - evidently she had spent years learning that she was an immovable object versus an unstoppable force if both herself and her mother displayed their stubbornness. So her aunts shuffled along with sour faces, freeing up the two chairs beside the head of the table where Lisa was to sit. John helped Helen to her chair and settled into his own, trying  _ very  _ hard not to look at who was sat across from him. 

John was thankful for the meal not requiring knives, for the glare Nicolas was aiming at him would've made him already grab the nearest out of instinct. However, he had done terrible things with far worse than a spoon. 

A certain pencil came to mind. 

He felt a hand on his thigh, and he dropped his gaze to his bowl. Helen offered him an encouraging smile before he felt her hand - regrettably - come away. 

Whilst he could certainly try to contribute to the cheery conversations - discussion of the holidays, of what Christmas day's activities tomorrow would hold - he found himself replying to questions with short, vague answers. He was distracted, so painfully so, and it made him furious. He  _ wanted _ to pay attention, to commit his focus and efforts to speaking with Helen's parents. But a certain pair of steely eyes across the table were watching him; even while eating his own meal, Nicolas watched John's every move. After a while, John gave up entirely on trying to avoid it. He watched the movements of Nicolas' hands - one clenched against the table beside his placemat, and the other tight around the slim handle of his spoon. The slow, even blinks of his eyelids. The rise and fall of his shoulders with every paced breath. He was, despite the hard stare, comfortable. At ease. 

Yet part of him seemed ready to crash across the table at John. 

He and Nicolas hadn't parted on poor terms. And whilst John had never particularly cared for where the ex-assassin's life had taken him since the night of the hit, he had never feared a reunion one day; a cross of paths in that dark Underworld from which they both came. Evidently, Nicolas did not feel the same way. 

But John knew exactly why he was receiving those looks of disdain, distrust, even with their shared past. Because whilst Nicolas had involved himself in Helen's childhood, her teen years, her young adulthood, he had  _ never  _ let his secret slip. It was obvious from how Helen had reacted to. John's words that Nicolas' dark past wasn't exactly a family matter. And yet, years after his retirement, the very same man who'd put him there was now in a relationship with his beloved niece. Nicolas hated John for the same reason he hated  _ himself _ . 

By simply breathing, he put his Helen in danger. 

"You feeling alright, John?" came a voice from his right, and he blinked out of his stupor. Lisa was looking at him in vague but polite concern. "Not enjoying your food?" 

"Ah, no it's lovely." he assured quickly, offering her a smile. 

"John drove the whole way here," Helen interjected. Saving him again. "And he's been pulling late nights lately for work."

He didn't like the little snort that left Nicolas at that. No one else seemed to notice it - or at the very least, paid it no mind. 

But Helen wasn't  _ wrong _ . He definitely did his best work at night, when humans naturally became vulnerable. And right now, he was feeling tired, drowsy, a little sluggish. But not enough to feel comfortable and relaxed, not with how he was being watched. 

"Well, we have to make sure you get an early night then." decided Helen's father from across the table, grinning, "We're gonna be doing some shooting early tomorrow morning. You shoot, John?" 

"I know how to handle firearms, sir."

Helen was smiling - a tiny little twitch of her lips because she knew that was such an oversimplification. She knew how competent he was with a gun, second to only one type of person; the ones at the other end of the barrel. 

"Great then. Winner always gets the honour of slicing up the turkey tomorrow." 

"It's not an honour, Dad." Helen said with a roll of her eyes, "And give up already. Uncle Nic always beats you - and this year, Uncle Nic is gonna lose." 

"Oh, is that right, sweets?" Nicolas asked suddenly from across the table, leaning forwards with a grin, "Why? Does your boyfriend know how to use a gun better than he's letting on?" 

John didn't like how he was sneering at her. "I served in the marines." he cut in, "And since, I've kept up weapons training as a… Hobby." 

He only hoped the hesitation wasn't noticed by too many ears. Nicolas' sneer melted away, into something that could otherwise be a friendly invitation of competition. A wide smile, warm and welcoming to the untrained eye. 

But John's eyes were trained, albeit a little damaged. He knew that smile anywhere - the last time Nicolas had used it on him, it had been right after a charming life lesson. 

" _ A pencil won't save you in a knife fight. _ "

And only after he'd drawn blood from John's throat with the sharp blade in his hand had he stopped smiling. 

Nicolas Vizla was anything but a fair sportsman. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter! There will probably be a few more <3
> 
> I'm [bubble-bones](https://bubble-bones.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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